One Step Closer
by Third Person Point of View
Summary: Oneshot. 04XD pairing. VERY explicit. Please read and review! I always thought it would be an almost catastrophic pairing...


DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gundam Wing, no matter how badly I wish I did.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was originally a songfic, but I had to edit it out to keep in compliance of the rules (I don't really want to ruffle any feathers). It is based on the Linkin Park song _One Step Closer_ as implied by the title. I know that the song is not exactly the classic romance-inspiring song, but it did the trick. I kind of always imagined Quatre and Dorothy like this...

It wasn't the usual battle field. This was only appropriate because it wasn't a usual battle. There were suits scattered all over the field, a dominating presence. But the game wasn't about the show of outer strength, the game was about winning from the inside out. It was a sea of black and white and amongst the monochromatic tide swam a ripple of sea-foam green.

She could feel his eyes on her, watching like hungry predator watching his prey. Well, Dorothy Catalonia was no prey and Quatre Raberba Winner was not a wild predator. He was more like a house cat. The thought made her give a twisted little smile. She hated these galas and balls. She hated the tedious talk and the formalities of dancing with people you despised and who despised you. She didn't bother to hide it either. Her rebellion was in her always scandalous dress. It was right for the occasion, but it showed too much skin for the stuffy crowd she was with. That and the unusual color. The regular gala gown was a pretty cream or an elegant black, not sea-foam green.

He made his move then and she was almost glad. Even fighting down that hated feeling in her stomach and struggling to keep a straight face was better than one more second of Senator Klimt's blathering nonsense and he knew it.

"Senator Klimt," he greeted as if pleased. "Mrs. Klimt, Lady Tuvin." He turned a blue-green gaze on her and she shifted to help push down the feeling. "Miss Catalonia," he said and held out a hand.

She took it with a false smile and allowed herself to be led to the dance floor. He pulled her closer than necessary, muffling their conversation to the greedy, gossip-starved ears around them. He took her hand in his tightly as if afraid she would pull away and wrapped an arm of iron around her thin waist. They were stomach to stomach, thighs brushing, faces mere inches apart. Dorothy smothered another pang and kept pace as he gracefully started the waltz, moving her with ease around the dance floor.

"What is all this 'Miss Catalonia' bullshit?" she murmured in his ear, nothing on her face giving away the brash words to the public eye.

"What would you have preferred?" Quatre asked. He could smell her perfume and his heart tripped over itself as it began to beat faster. Just another part of their deadly little game.

"I would have preferred you not coming over to me at all."

"Then why did you take my hand? It's not like you to care what these people think of you."

Dorothy snorted crudely. "No, but you do."

"Since when did my feelings matter to you?" There was poison in his voice and she flinched, glad her cheek was pressed against his so her face was unseen.

"They don't. Not a bit," she bit out.

Quatre gave a cruel laugh and tightened his grip, almost painful now. "You're going to have to face it sooner or later, Dorothy. Not even you are that good at escaping. What are you afraid of?"

The music had stopped and she forcibly pulled out of his arms, snarling at him.

"Nothing," she spat venomously. "Especially not you."

"So you've told me," he replied nonchalantly, hands tucked casually in his pockets and a charming little smile on his angelic face. Dorothy flared her nostrils and he laughed at her. "You'd better run, Dorothy. You don't want your cab to leave you." And he laughed again.

He had laughed at her. Again. It echoed in her brain and stung like a thousand needles. She felt the red hot haze wash over her as she threw herself into her limousine. The driver took one look in the mirror, raised the divider, and set of towards her house.

Quatre wasn't a wild, uncontrolled beast and this was unfortunate. House cat had been the perfect description. But not a house cat one thought of in the fluffy, idealistic way they are portrayed. Quatre was a house cat in the realist terms. He was sly, cunning, calm, and calculating. He would lay low, nothing but the faintest of sighs giving off how dangerous and lethal he truly was. And then one day he trips you at the top of the stairs and sits to lick his paws clean, that evil, glinting smile in his eyes.

She replayed the conversation over and over in her head. This was not the first time nor, she knew, would it be the last, when Quatre's words would both sting her and confuse her. Confusion was a clean, wholesome word. Confusion was an escape. She leaned back in her seat and escaped.

Quatre drove home at a steady ninety miles an hour, the car smooth and flawless on the roads. With one hand he unlaced his bowtie, letting it hang loose over his clean, white shirt. With a second thought he undid the first two buttons on his shirt as well. His brow was furrowed.

He hated being frustrated, a feeling Dorothy often left him with. She had a knack for aversion. She slipped into her self-made confusion and soak in it. Her defense against the world. Ignorance is bliss and Dorothy dwelled heavily in bliss. She heard and understood only what suited her, leaving Quatre with a bad taste in his mouth.

"Shit," Quatre muttered under his breath.

Two could play at this game and it was time that Quatre put his foot down. If it was up to him he'd put it down on her goddamned head and press hard.

His car made no sound, left no mark as he swung it around violently in a dangerously narrow u-turn and headed in the opposite direction.

This little game would end tonight.

Dorothy walked into her house and sighed, running a hand through the shimmering, pale yellow locks and tossing her clutch bag on the hall table. The lights were off, moonlight streaming in through a couple of windows. The servants had gone home.

She stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the huge fridge. Her house was large by house standards, but not a mansion. She'd left mansions behind a while ago. She preferred to hear everything that went on in the house.

Even so it was only a feeling that caused her to wheel around, ready for a fight. She couldn't help but gasp.

Quatre stared at her, a cold, unfamiliar look in his eyes. He was covered in darkness, the moonlight casting eerie shadows over his face. He looked as he had eight years ago in the mobile dolls control chamber.

"You can't run anymore, Dorothy," Quatre said icily. "I'm ending it here."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" she snapped, flaring angrily. Anger always helped. "You can't just waltz in here and started barking orders at me, Quatre."

Quatre took a few dangerous steps forward, closing the gap between them. He had a light in his eye she'd never seen and it frightened her. She took a compulsive step backwards and then sobered, standing her ground. The feeling swelled painfully in her gut. When he spoke it was between clenched teeth.

"Cut the crap, Dorothy. I'm not playing these games anymore. I've humored you enough," he growled and she realized she was terrified. "You're still running."

"No." But it was an unconvincing whisper.

"You can't lie to me, don't you know that already?"

"No," she shouted in his face. "I don't run from anything. Nothing and no one, you hear!"

"You're still running, Dorothy. Even now."

"What would I have to run from?"

"You're running from me!"

Her breathing was stilted, jerky and she shook her head forcefully.

"You're going to have to hear it sooner or later, Dorothy."

"Shut up," she whispered.

"And I say its going to be sooner."

"Shut up."

"Face up to it, Dorothy. Stop running."

"Shut up!" she yelled at him.

"No!" he yelled back. "No, goddamn it! No! I love you, Dorothy and I know that you love me too."

It was like a slap in the face and she stepped back from it, shock on her face. Her head shook in denial.

"You can't hide from it anymore," Quatre continued mercilessly, that cold, distant tone in his voice.

She turned her back to him.

"You love me," he said.

"No," she said, her stomach wrenching. "No, no, no."

But the words tumbled in her head. _You love me. I love you. You love me. I love you. You love me…_

No matter how much she fought it, they wouldn't disappear. And suddenly the feeling rose from the pit of her stomach and washed over her like an angry wave pounding the sand deeper down into itself. She cringed against it as it filled her limbs.

"NO!" she yelled, wheeling back around to face him.

"You come into my house spouting lies," she accused. "You don't know me. You don't know what I feel."

"I know you better than you know yourself, Dorothy," Quatre snarled. "That look you get in your eyes whenever I get near you. The way your body tenses each and every time I touch you, even if it was an accident. The way you speak, the way you move around me. You push me away and if I let myself let pushed, you just pull me back. Admit it. Stop being such a coward and admit it!"

The feeling crashed over her again, twice as powerfully. She called up the red haze of anger. Anger always helped.

"You're delusional, Mr. Winner."

"Fuck Mr. Winner, Dorothy. You love me."

"No, I don't!" she shrieked.

"Yes," Quatre said, grabbing her wrist in an iron grip that hurt her. "Yes, Dorothy, you do. You-"

She wretched her arm from his grasp. "Don't you ever-"

He lunged suddenly, pushing her back up against the wall and the air burst painfully from her lungs. His hand was around her throat, fire in his eyes. She clutched and pulled at his arm to no avail.

"I told you," he breathed, very close, in a dangerous voice. "I'm not playing this game anymore."

She gasped for air, still fighting him.

"Say it," he murmured.

She clawed harder, drawing blood on his hand, but he still didn't move.

"Say it," he repeated, pounding her against the wall again.

"Never," she spit.

He struck like a cobra, fast and hard. His mouth crushed hers, hard and painful. The kiss was a tightlipped, angry one and she squealed, fighting, shaking her head against it. The pressure was suddenly relieved and she once again stared at his cold, hard eyes.

"Say it, goddamn it," he snarled. "Say it."

"No," she whimpered.

This kiss was just as hard and just as painful, the pressure of his lips pressing tight against her teeth. She grimaced, winced from it, but didn't try to shake him off. It hurt too much when she did. Again, like the first, this one lasted only a few seconds.

He didn't speak this time, just banged her once more against the wall. Her lungs and ribs protested and she opened her mouth in a silent cry.

She shook her head.

This kiss was still hard, but not painful this time. She tightened against it and she could feel his anger at the miniscule movement. His tongue forced her lips open seeking the warmth inside. He bombarded her, his grip shifting to the back of her neck, but not slackening in the least. He crushed her body against his.

His tongue slid into her mouth, brushing hotly against hers. She didn't respond, not moving with him and the pressure of his hand tightened at the base of her skull. She flinched against it as it kick started her. Her tongue danced with his. He kept the lead, her for once submissive, afraid, and she didn't dare not move her tongue against his.

Then suddenly he broke from her mouth, kissed her lips once more, still holding her tightly against him, and spun her around. Things scattered, clashing and banging to the ground as he threw them both onto the granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen. Her body was crushed halfway under his and he kissed her deeply again.

Once again he broke and this time her body cried out for the warmth of his mouth over hers. But his lips hadn't gone far. He pressed kisses onto her jaw line and up to her ear, sucking hard for a moment. An unexpected gasp escaped her lips and her arms, limp until this point, reached up to rest on the back of his head. He continued, moving lower, leaving a wet trail down her neck to the sensitive spot on the base of her throat where he lavished time. Her hands clenched hard in his hair.

A haze swept over her, but this wasn't the ever-clearing red haze of anger. This was a heady, thick, burgundy haze that filled her to the brim.

Quatre's mouth continued its harsh torture. His lips slipped further down, onto her collar bone, he didn't stop.

"Quatre…" she whispered, breathless.

He growled, but stopped his decent, raising his head. He pulled her up off the island, her long, white-blond hair lashing out behind her, and shoved her roughly backwards. She stumbled over herself and was caught up by him again. His mouth crashed roughly against hers and this time she opened to him on her own accord. He tasted her, pulling back tauntingly at times. He sucked on her bottom lips for a moment and she gasped, pleasantly surprised. He gave a mean, little laugh and kissed her again.

There was a grunt from both of them as the back of her knees hit the side of the enormous couch and gave way. He landed on top of her and she could feel the entire length of his body against her. He kissed her neck again, this time not dawdling, leaving a hot, wet trail between her breasts.

"Quatre…" she repeated, trying futilely to push him away.

Quatre sat up suddenly, the moon bouncing off his golden hair to create a shining halo of light. He had her pinned beneath him and what at first looked like a submission to her plea was now realized for the rebellion that it was. He ripped the thin straps of the gown out of the seams and she cried in protest. But Quatre would have none of it. He ripped the front of the dress open, exposing the bare flesh beneath the rippling satin.

She gasped and brought her hands up to cover herself. He shoved them away. Dorothy replaced them once more and he grabbed her left wrist tightly, pulling it away from her chest. Her right arm compensated and he took that one too. She struggled against him, managing to break free for a second, but not long enough to cover up anything before he caught her hand. After a brief struggle, he managed to lock both wrists in one palm tight enough to prevent her from breaking free. She trashed her legs and he slid down to press his body down against hers, keeping his chest up to stare pointedly into her eyes.

She continued to struggle, but he had her utterly and completely pinned. He ran a hand down her shoulder, across her clavicle and in the grove between her breasts. She lashed out, but was no match for him. She took in a breath and stopped as his palm swept over her breast, his fingers running lightly over the nipple and working it into a point. He did it all without once breaking his eyes from her. She gave a long blink, tried to think clearly, and couldn't as the burgundy haze thickened around her head.

Slowly he let go of her hands, but they stayed above her head as if he was still holding them there. When she opened her eyes, they were clouded and submissive. He kept their gaze and slid his hand lower, taking the tattered edges of the dress in one hand. He shifted his hips to allow room between them and slowly, never breaking her gaze, began to pull the dress lower. Her hips shifted in response, giving him the room to remove it all the way.

He sat back up, took her feet, still clad in the strappy black high heeled shoes. Still staring directly into her eyes, he undid the buckle and took one shoe off, then the other, holding her delicate foot in his hand. Dorothy took in a gasp as his fingers traced a slow line up her calf, her thigh, over the lacey panties, across her flat belly, over her breasts, brushing against her collarbone, up her throat, over her cheek, to cup the back of her head. Where his fingers had crossed, his body had accordingly followed. His mouth met hers again, slow this time and working up into a frenzied, hungry state. She moaned as he softly bit her lip.

Dorothy reached up to tear at the black buttons on his crisp, pressed shirt and he fumbled to help her. Between the two of them they accomplished the task and he wriggled out of the shirt, never breaking from her mouth. She pulled back for a second to look him over. She ran her hands down his sculpted chest and abs, pausing as she found a ripple in the middle of his stomach. A scar lay raised on the pale skin in the shape of her blade. Time had shrunken it, but it was still quite large. She ran her fingers over it for a second, then looked up to meet his gaze again. He lunged at her, viciously moving his tongue against hers.

Her fingers found the snap in his slacks and she pulled at them desperately. He shifted his body to allow her movement and the pants were kicked off as well. It was a race to get their underwear off, their arms tangling against each others as they tried urgently to get the others' off, all the while, mouths working, sucking and nipping and moving with each other. They managed at the same time.

He slipped away from her mouth and she couldn't hide the frustration in her eyes. He grinned wickedly and nudged her legs apart. Her eyes widened.

"Quatre, no…"

He didn't respond, he just bent. She shuddered, throwing her head back as his warm breath sent shock waves through her. He was right there and teasing her, so close, the warmth of him making her ache. Finally, he tested her with a small lick and she cried out in agony. He smiled cruelly to himself and licked again, this time a longer, deeper stroke. That earned a deep, guttural moan and her fingers twisted into his hair.

She shuddered, goose bumps rising on her flesh as he gently ran his fingers over the sensitive sides of her thighs. He sucked lightly and she yelped, the sound evolving into a groan of pleasure. His tongue ventured further down and entered and she gasped in, a high-pitched sound catching in the back of her throat. He traveled up again and sucked, thrusting two fingers into her, in and out, in and out.

She clenched around him and he continued as her noises fevered, rose in pitch. He could feel her begin to shake with the oncoming explosion and just before she did he pulled out and away. An angry moan escaped her, but before she could say anything he kissed her deeply. She could taste herself on his lips and it was oddly exciting. The orgasm slipped away from her, replaced instead with the haze, the anticipation again.

Dorothy took in a sharp breath, her mouth freezing in its action as he thrust into her. After the first initial thrust, there was no other pause. He took her violently, fast and hard. She gasped, broken sounds escaping her lips. She moved with him, trying desperately to follow the pace he set.

They were breathing hard, sweating. He was supporting himself over her, his arms straining against the pressure. His head hung at the slope of her neck and shoulder. She had her hands on his shoulders, her nails biting into the flesh of his back. She could feel the ripples of muscle lying under the smooth skin. He pounded her harder, driving the orgasm back to linger there on the edge.

"Quatre," she whimpered.

"Come on, Dorothy," was his murmured response in her ear.

"Quatre, please…" she begged, throwing her head back as he pounded deeper.

"Almost there, Dorothy."

"Please…"

"Don't fight it," he said, sucking on her earlobe and feeling her clench tighter around him. "Don't fight it anymore."

Dorothy moaned again as he deepened his strokes further. She lost herself to him, letting the haze sweep over her, not trying to control it anymore. She did as he told her, letting go of the fight. The haze turned into the feeling, awful and painful for a few blinding seconds and then, as her orgasm ripped through her and then him, it settled into her bones with a sense of much needed relief.

They stayed, intertwined like that for a few long seconds, breathing hard. Quatre shifted, pulling out of her, still laboriously drawing in air. He rolled off of her, settling next to her on the wide, soft sofa.

They lay on their backs for a long time, their breathing slowly coming back to normal. It had been that way for sometime before either of them moved or said anything. He lay beside her, waiting. Waiting for her to finally break.

"Quatre?" Dorothy whispered, her hand sliding into his.

His fingers closed around hers. "Yes, Dorothy?"

She paused, taking in a few more breaths, waiting for the feeling to wretch at her bones painfully… but it didn't. She rolled up and over, half onto him so that she could look into his eyes. All traces of brutality had left, now it was just Quatre. He waited patiently.

"I love you."


End file.
